Damn the wind
Damn the wind that scatters this land.
Damn the dusty silken webs
that lull my sodden slumber
floating here in this dry-baked cemetery
shell-shocked numb from gusty buffets
squeezing eyes shut against the blast of sand
and tasting the Hanta virus and the Greasewood.
Stinking Cheesebrush clings to shifting waves of sand
and Juniper barely holds in the higher spots
Buckwheat does not nourish
nor Hop Sage fill my parched longing.
I dream of the ocean
and the Redwoods
and lush meadows of irrepressible wild grass
while hunkering down against the angry blast
next to a Kangaroo rat and a blinking tortoise
conserving what energy and moisture we have
saving it for the dash when the Mojave Green arrives.